


This Year

by DiscordantWords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Conversations, Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Completely ignores S3 after the Empty Hearse, Don't copy to another site, First Kiss, Jealous John Watson, John is a Mess, M/M, New Year's Eve, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-01 18:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17249393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/pseuds/DiscordantWords
Summary: Last year, Sherlock Holmes showed up at the Landmark with a fake moustache and a bad French accent and threw John's entire life into disarray with two words:"Not dead."This year, there are more surprises in store.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a ficlet, and then kept growing and growing and growing. My hopes had been to finish it in time to post on New Year's Eve, but I didn't quite make my own deadline. Oops. 
> 
> Part two should be up tomorrow!

*

"John!" Greg called, winding his way through the crowd, arm outstretched. "Glad you could make it!" 

John tried for a smile—it came a little easier these days, though it still mostly felt like a grimace—and stepped away from the door, letting it fall shut behind him with a little tinkle of bells. The December night air was freezing, but the air inside the pub was warm and festive.

Greg reached out to clap him on the shoulder, a hearty well-meaning thump. There was a half-empty pint glass in his hand, clearly not his first of the night. He was flushed in the face and a little glassy-eyed. It had been a long time since John had seen him so cheerful. Well. It had been a long time since John had seen him at all, really. 

"Didn't think you'd come," Greg said. 

"Yeah," John kept on smiling, hoping it looked genuine enough. "Thanks for thinking of me." 

Greg had texted. He'd been good about that, over the past year. And, come to think of it, he'd been good about it over the two years prior as well, those two cold and lonely years where Sherlock had been—well—not dead.

John usually found reasons not to accept. He had lots of reasons. Some of them were even good ones.

"Been too long," Greg said. "How's—um—?"

John winced. 

Greg did not seem to register his expression. "Maggie? No! Mary. Mary! How's Mary? Where is she? Is she here with you?" He grinned, pleased with himself, clapped John on the shoulder again. 

"Didn't work out," John said. 

"Oh," Greg said, his smile dropping. "Sorry to hear that." 

"Yeah, me too," John said. He had not spent last New Year's Eve with Mary. Instead, he'd passed it alone in front of the telly with a bottle of very good scotch. The liquor had been a spontaneous splurge after returning her unworn engagement ring to the jeweler for a partial refund. He'd almost regretted it. The liquor, not the ring.

He had not wished to welcome another year in quite the same fashion.

He offered a tight smile, glanced over Greg's shoulder towards the bar. He should not have come. He should have taken the invitation for the awkwardly polite gesture that it was, and simply made his excuses. He had no business in a crowded pub surrounded by half-drunk Yarders on New Year's Eve, especially since—

His thoughts derailed as he caught sight of a familiar figure with his back against the bar, standing amidst the crowd and yet still somehow apart from it. 

Sherlock Holmes, tall and aloof and still heartbreakingly, miraculously alive. 

The sight punched the breath out of him. He breathed out, hard, looked away. 

"He's—" John said, and stared helplessly at Greg. 

He was rapidly growing overwarm in his coat. A trickle of sweat made its way down his neck, sliced an uncomfortable path between his shoulder blades. He glanced over Greg's shoulder again, just to make sure. 

Still Sherlock. 

Greg gave him a boozy, bleary grin and followed his line of sight. "Oh, yeah, forgot to mention he'd be here." 

"He doesn't do parties," John said. He was unable to stop staring. If he'd known there'd been even a _chance_ that Sherlock would attend, he'd have made his excuses and stayed far away. 

"Right, yeah," Greg said, and offered a conspiratorial little wink. "Might have lied to him a bit to get him here." 

John laughed a little without meaning to. Sherlock was frowning down at his phone. There was a little furrow of concentration between his brows, the expression familiar. It wrenched something in John's chest and he looked away. 

He had not seen Sherlock in person since that night. That horrible November night when he'd climbed into a taxi with Mary, thrumming with tension and fury, engagement ring still tucked in his pocket instead of on her finger. He'd glanced over his shoulder only once as they'd pulled away from the kerb, watched Sherlock receding where they'd left him on the pavement, still clutching a wad of napkins to his bloodied nose. 

Just over a year ago, now. 

There had been pictures in the paper, of course, and it had been hard to flip through the channels on the telly for a while without Sherlock blinking back at him, looking haughty and grim and bored. He had, it seemed, foregone the fake moustache and French accent for the benefit of the press. 

Christ, but the sight of him was still enraging, even after all this time. John pressed his lips together, cleared his throat. His hand clenched against his leg and he flexed it, tightened his fingers into a fist. 

"You two still haven't sorted it out, then? He said you haven't been around much," Greg said.

John started, a little guilty. He'd forgotten Greg was there. 

"Is that what he said?" 

"Well," Greg shifted. "Not in so many words. But. It was implied."

"Right," John said through his teeth. He ought to leave. He ought to leave _right now,_ while there was still a chance that Sherlock had not noticed him. 

"Didn't think you'd actually show up tonight," Greg continued, confirming John's suspicion that he'd been invited out of courtesy, nothing more and nothing less. 

"Yeah," John said, his face heating. He was glad he had not taken off his coat. "Got your text. Just wanted to stop in, wish you a happy New Year. I should be—I've actually got plans later, so—" 

"Right, yeah," Greg said. "Well—" 

John thought it remarkably polite that Greg did not point out that it was a half hour to midnight on New Year's Eve, and if John had somewhere else to be he'd surely already be there. 

Over Greg's shoulder, Anderson had approached Sherlock. John found his attention caught in spite of himself. 

Anderson was talking quite animatedly. Cheerfully, even. Sherlock was—well—Sherlock was ignoring him, more or less. Staring at his phone. He did not seem particularly bothered. 

"I can't believe you got him to come out to the pub," John mused, in spite of himself. 

"Like I said, might have lied a bit to get him here," Greg said. "But it was worth it, yeah? I'm setting him up." 

John was so unprepared to hear this that it took him a good several seconds to realise that Greg was not, in fact, confessing to a crime, but rather was discussing a scheme of a more romantic nature. 

His blood went cold. 

"Setting him up." 

"Old school mate of mine, actually, bloody brilliant virologist. Runs a research program up in Glasgow. Bumped into him the other day, thought he'd be perfect for Sherlock." 

John could not help himself, he barked a harsh laugh through clenched teeth, looked away. Thought about Sherlock with his insufferable smirk and drawn-on moustache. The way he'd stood on the pavement, blood oozing sluggishly from his nose, and watched as John and Mary walked away. 

The way he hadn't even bothered trying to contact John again.

"Perfect for Sherlock," he echoed. "I think you're barking up the wrong tree, mate. He doesn't go in for that sort of thing." 

Greg looked bewildered for a moment, but John chalked it up to the drink. 

"Yeah, well, thought it might be good for him," Greg said, finally. "Hasn't been having an easy time of it. You know."

John blinked. "No. I don't know." He flashed another tight smile. 

"With what happened while he was—you really haven't spoken to him at all?" 

Sherlock, with his arrogance and his jokes. Sherlock, crashing back into John's world, making a mockery and a spectacle of his grief, disrupting his relationship with Mary—

Sherlock, who had not reached out again after that disastrous night, who had clearly viewed John as just another obligation to check off on a long list. 

And then Mary had left, and wasn't that just the icing on the cake? Sherlock showing up just long enough to wreck the last good thing that John had going for him? 

"You seem to have found him easy to forgive," John deflected, clearing his throat, flexing his hand. He tried not to scan the crowd for anyone who might resemble a brilliant virologist from Glasgow. 

"Yeah, 'course I did," Greg said, looking bewildered again. "I'd just spent two years wishing I'd done things differently, hadn't I? Felt responsible for what happened." 

_You machine,_ John had said. He'd regretted those words for two years. Had spent the next one thinking them remarkably apt. 

"Two years spent wishing you'd done things differently, only to find out you were the punchline of a very bad joke," John said. He tried not to sound bitter. "Though I guess you find him useful to have around. Boosts your solve rate." Ah, there was the bitterness.

Greg frowned at him. His flushed good cheer had mostly faded. He looked older, and oddly sad. "Right, yeah, well—" he lifted his mostly empty glass. "Time for a refill, I think. Happy New Year, John." 

He turned back towards the bar and shouldered his way into the crowd. John watched him go. He did not have to be a genius to know that there would be no more polite invitations in his future. 

"Go home," he muttered to himself, his voice low and fierce. He clenched his hand, hard, dug his fingernails into his palm. He needed to leave. He needed to have never come at all. He needed to stop thinking about Sherlock, and he needed to have never heard about the bloody virologist from Glasgow, and—

And oh, Christ, but that must be him, standing there at Sherlock's shoulder, looking down at something on the screen of Sherlock's phone. Tall and bespectacled and far too good-looking to be a research scientist (and John had not been aware that he maintained an attractiveness standard for research scientists, but it appeared he certainly did). 

The man had casually edged Anderson right out of the conversation, and now he and Sherlock were _both_ staring raptly at the phone, and Sherlock was speaking without looking up and John could hear it in his head, that rapidfire cadence that Sherlock's voice took on when he was interested, when something had caught the attention of that racing engine of a brain, and that was—

Well. There was no sense in lying to himself. He'd missed it. 

John was moving through the crowd before he knew what he was doing, before he could even hope to stop himself, because Sherlock was alive, Sherlock was _not dead,_ and Greg was right in that he'd spent two years wishing he'd done things differently and had then promptly and viciously turned away from his miracle. He'd turned away and Sherlock hadn't pursued, but why had he ever expected such a thing in the first place? Sherlock didn't _do_ human. That was John's job. 

"Sherlock," John said, drawing to a halt. His voice emerged lower than he would have liked and he cleared his throat, squared his shoulders. It was hot, too hot. He should have taken off his coat. He should have thought this through. He should have left when he had the chance. 

Sherlock's eyes snapped up. He dropped his phone. 

The too-tall, too-good-looking virologist from Glasgow bent to retrieve it. 

"John," Sherlock said, and he looked—he looked _shocked,_ and any satisfaction John might have gleaned from having managed to surprise him was immediately cancelled out by the fact that he'd clearly been so caught up in conversation with his date that he'd never even noticed John across the room. 

"It's. Um. Good to see you," he said, his hand coming up to scratch uncomfortably at the back of his neck. He searched for the anger that had fueled him for the majority of the year, came up empty. Sherlock's eyes were distractingly bright. 

Sherlock did not speak. He stared hard at John, a furrow appearing between his brows. John had the uncomfortable sensation that the entirety of the last year had been written on his skin, neatly printed in dark ink, easily legible even under the dim pub lights. 

"Look," John said, clearing his throat, tearing his gaze away, looking helplessly towards the door. "I'm on my way out. Got plans for the rest of the evening. So you—um. Happy New Year, Sherlock." 

"No," Sherlock said. 

John stopped. Turned back. 

"You don't have other plans," Sherlock said. "It's nearly midnight. New Year's Eve. Even I understand the social implications of that." That last was spoken with an unhappy twist of his lips, a strangely self-deprecating expression on that arrogant face. 

His companion had righted himself from the floor, stood forgotten by Sherlock's shoulder, phone grasped in one hand. John could feel the man's gaze on him, fought the urge to glance in his direction. 

"Fine," John said, his face hot. "You got me. I don't have other plans. Anything else humiliating you'd like to point out, or are we done here?" 

"You're not married," Sherlock said, looking at his hand. He frowned, looked John over again. "Clearly not just a long engagement. You'd be spending the evening with her if she were still in the picture. Uneven stubble on your chin says you live alone." 

"Brilliant," John said flatly. He tried again for anger, found nothing more than a dull resignation. He very carefully did not reach up to touch his chin. Sherlock was almost certainly correct. 

"I don't—" Sherlock stopped, frowned again, shook his head. "I don't understand. When we last spoke, you were—there was a ring—?" 

"Funny you should mention that," John said. He clenched his hand, hard, breathed out through his nose. There had been some part of him that had assumed Sherlock knew what had happened, that he'd kept tabs on John even though they no longer spoke. He was not quite sure why it stung so badly to be proven wrong. 

Mary had tried to get him to talk, that night. And the night after, and the night after that. He'd refused, stiff-shouldered and silent. He'd shaved his moustache. He'd spent days jumping at shadows, thinking he saw Sherlock on every street corner, in every crowd. 

It was weeks later, when he'd returned home from work to an empty flat and an apologetic but blunt note on the kitchen table, that he realised he'd never even completed his proposal. He'd left the ring in plain view on the nightstand all that time, had never said another word about it.

He could not really blame her for leaving. 

And though he'd certainly spent the last year endeavoring to, he could not really blame Sherlock for it either. 

He'd made a mess of that one all on his own. 

He'd even tried to look her up a few months ago, wanting to apologise for how he'd treated her. She had disappeared quite thoroughly, almost as if she'd never existed at all. Another loose thread, another unfinished chapter in his story. He'd got used to the feeling. 

"Is everything all right?" Sherlock's companion, the too-tall, too-good-looking virologist from Glasgow asked. 

"Fine," John said without looking at him. "I'm on my way out—" 

"John," Sherlock said. His voice sounded strangled. He blinked, hard, shook his head, opened his mouth again. 

"It's fine," John said. "It's all fine. I'm just—glad you're well. Yeah. Have a good night." He nodded, whirled around, once more made for the door. 

"Nice to meet you," Sherlock's date called after him. 

John stopped. 

Don't turn around, he told himself. 

He turned back. Sherlock was still watching him. The bloody brilliant virologist from Glasgow was standing very close to him, nearly plastered to his side. He'd handed Sherlock back his phone. 

"Actually, you know what?" John approached again, ignoring the voice inside that begged him to retreat while he still had some semblance of dignity to his name. "Sherlock, would you mind if—can I borrow you? Just for a moment?" 

Sherlock took a step forward, then another, moving slowly. His face gave nothing away. His eyes, those wonderful strange eyes, had not wavered from John's face. 

He looked tired, John thought. A little frayed, rougher around the edges than he had before. 

John looked at him, and thought about the expression on Greg's face when he'd said _he hasn't been having an easy time of it._

He wondered what Greg had meant by that. 

"What—?" Sherlock started to say. 

John shook his head, glanced around, panic flaring. His first thought had been to step outside, but it would entail herding Sherlock past where Greg was leaning against a table near the door chatting with Sally Donovan, and he didn't want to be intercepted. 

Remaining by the bar was out of the question, not so long as Sherlock's much-too-interesting companion refused to get the hint and afford them a moment's privacy. 

His frantic, roving gaze alit on a door just to the left of the bar, likely a little supply cupboard or staff room. He put his hand on Sherlock's back and nudged him in that direction, moving quickly. 

"In there," he said unnecessarily. There was a piece of paper taped to the front of the door and John ignored it as he steered Sherlock through, kicking away the little doorstop and letting the door slam shut behind them. 

He took a shaky breath.

The space was small and dark and musty, but Sherlock was close, so close, and the air seemed to thicken with his familiar scent. They were alone.

"John?" 

"Shut up," John said. He held up his hand, shut his eyes. Breathed. Now that he'd got here, he realised he had no idea what he wanted to say. "Just give me a minute." 

Sherlock fell silent. 

John breathed and breathed and breathed. 

Sherlock did not speak. 

"Right. Erm. How have you been?" John said, conscious that too much time had gone by, that he'd made things unbearably awkward by dragging Sherlock into a cramped dark space and simply staring at him for minutes on end.

Sherlock blinked. Blinked again. 

John's coat was too hot. Sherlock was too close. Too close and too silent. 

"How have I been?" Sherlock repeated, speaking slowly. 

"Small talk, Sherlock. I'm being polite. Work with me, please." 

"I'm well," Sherlock said obediently. "And you?" 

"Great," John said. "Well, no. Not great. Actually. That's a lie." 

"Excellent," Sherlock said. He clapped his hands together. The sound was gunshot loud in the tiny room. "Any more small talk you'd like to subject me to, or do you plan on getting to the point?" 

"I don't—" John shut his eyes. "I don't know. Sorry. You should just go." 

"Mm, no, I don't think so," Sherlock said, and his voice had sharpened. "You've clearly got something on your mind. Best continue." 

"Why are you even _here?_ " John snapped. "You avoid social events like the plague. What the hell could have possibly compelled you to come out to a crowded pub on New Year's Eve, of all bloody nights?" 

"I was invited," Sherlock said. 

"That's never mattered before!" 

"Poor choice of words," Sherlock said, looking away. "Avoid like the plague. I'd actually quite like the opportunity to examine samples of plague-infected tissue, with proper protective equipment of course, but—" 

"Sherlock," John said, and he had to press his knuckles against his mouth to stop himself from smiling. There was nothing to smile about, not anymore. His mouth should stop trying to disagree.

"Why aren't you married, John?" 

Right. Yep. That killed the smile. 

"You drove her off," John said. "Haven't you deduced that much? You know I had a ring with me the night that you—that night. At the Landmark. You ruined it, you made her leave." 

"I did nothing of the sort." Sherlock had the nerve to sound offended. 

"There was no proposal, Sherlock. No romantic night out. Instead she was treated to not one, not two, but _three_ separate fistfights." 

"You threw the first punch," Sherlock said. "Three times." 

"You deserved that. You pretended to be dead for two years." 

"Regardless, she still got in the taxi with you at the end of the night." 

John shut his eyes. 

Sherlock was right, of course. He'd admitted his own fault to himself long ago. He did not, particularly, feel like admitting it to Sherlock as well. 

"Why are we here, John?" Sherlock asked. He no longer sounded offended, or haughty. His voice was tired, uncertain. He was still standing much too close. 

"I don't know," John admitted. His shoulders slumped.

Sherlock opened his mouth, drew in a breath, likely to say something terrible, and so John cut him off by jabbing a determined index finger into the center of his chest. 

"I don't think you really understand why I'm angry with you. Yeah? Because if you did, maybe you'd have—" John stopped, his eyes stinging. 

Sherlock said nothing. 

John ploughed on. "Because you might not care, it might just be a joke to you, but to me, it was—" he laughed humourlessly, stared up at the low ceiling. The tiles were dirty, strung with cobwebs. 

"A trick," Sherlock said.

John looked at him. "What?" 

"Not a joke. A trick." 

"Same thing." John was suddenly very tired. 

"No," Sherlock said. His pale eyes were luminous in the dark. "Not the same thing at all."

"Right," John said. Whatever fight he'd had left had gone out of him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, turned away. "Forget it. Have a nice life, Sherlock." 

He fumbled in the dark for the doorknob, found it, pulled. The door rattled in the frame, did not budge. 

"John, wait—" 

He yanked on the door again, harder this time. Turned back around. Bumped up against Sherlock, who had somehow crowded even closer in the small space. 

"It's locked," he said. Panic rose in his chest and he turned back, rattled the knob.

"What?" 

"The door. It's locked."


	2. Chapter 2

*

John yanked on the door again. "Shit. We're locked in." 

"So it seems," Sherlock said. He did not sound particularly surprised. 

John thought about the doorstop that had been wedged between the doorframe and the door, keeping it cracked open. Thought about the paper taped against the cracked wood that he'd disregarded in his haste. 

It was difficult to think with Sherlock's hot breath puffing against the back of his neck. 

"There was a note," he said, trying and failing to angle himself so that Sherlock was not quite so close. "On the door. I didn't—" 

"Lock broken, do not close door," Sherlock recited crisply.

John whirled back to face him. "Why the _hell_ didn't you say something?" 

He felt rather than saw Sherlock shrug. "Thought you had a plan." 

"No," John said, sagging slightly. He reached into his pocket, drew out his phone. The screen cast the small space in an eerie blue light. "Christ, this is humiliating." 

Sherlock shifted where he stood, said nothing. 

John blinked down at his phone, not quite believing what he was seeing. "No service. You've got to be—we're in the middle of London. _How_ can there be no service?" 

"Must have something to do with the building," Sherlock said. He'd taken out his own phone, looked at it, slipped it back into his pocket. His face was bored in the faint light. "No signal on mine." 

That made John think of the laboratory at Barts, of Sherlock lifting his head and meeting John's gaze for the first time, the air between them alive with promise. That was most decidedly not something he wanted to be thinking about. 

He turned back to the door, pounded on it with his fist. 

"Unlikely anyone will hear you. Boisterous crowd out there." 

"Well I'm not sitting in here all night." 

"Why not?" 

"You are kidding, right?" 

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. 

John dropped his head against the door, groaned. "I'll just kick it down. Step back." 

"John," Sherlock said, and some of that bored stiffness had drained from his voice. "Wait—" 

There was a warm pressure on John's shoulder. Sherlock's hand. 

"No," John said.

"John." 

"Nope. No. Whatever you're up to, whatever you're trying to—"

"It's good to see you," Sherlock said. 

"What?" John blinked, thrown. Sherlock did not remove his hand. It was a solid weight through the wool of his coat. He found himself fighting the insane urge to reach up and grasp that hand with his own. 

"You expressed a similar sentiment earlier," Sherlock said. "Though your body language implied your words were less than genuine." 

John sighed, turned around to face him. Sherlock's hand dropped from his shoulder. 

"That's not—" John said. His mouth was dry. The words would not come. 

"It's all right," Sherlock said. "Polite interaction demands certain small lies, after all. Expressing gratitude for useless gifts from grateful clients. Saying it's good to see you when it isn't. Although in this particular instance, I'm speaking the truth. It _is_ good to see you, John. I'd—I'd wanted—" 

"If you wanted to see me so badly, why the hell didn't you?" John snapped.

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath. He was too close. The room was too small and too dark and too hot and Sherlock was too close for them to be having this conversation, to be having _any_ conversation, really, and John should have left, should have turned and walked out the door as soon as he'd spotted him by the bar. Because now they were only inches apart, and the anger and hurt and regret and longing that had been threatening to spill over for the last year was once more bubbling dangerously to the surface. 

"You made it quite clear that any further contact would be unwelcome." 

Sherlock, on the pavement with a split lip and blood oozing from his nose, the way his eyes had tracked John and Mary as they'd climbed into the taxi. 

_Are you going to talk to him?_ Mary's persistent questions. He hadn't answered her. He'd ignored the issue and he'd ignored her until they'd both gone away. 

He'd waited for something to happen. Had waited for Sherlock to reach out, to try again, to come back. Sherlock trampled boundaries, it was _what he did._ It hadn't made sense, the way he'd just given up, gone back to his solitary life with only the most cursory of efforts. 

Except, maybe it had made sense. 

"Christ," John said, and he shut his eyes. "Is this the part where you tell me that—that _you,_ Sherlock Holmes, the man with absolutely no sense of propriety whatsoever, were just trying to respect my bloody wishes?" 

Sherlock shifted where he stood. "I'd already caused you a great deal of difficulty. I hadn't intended—it was not my intention to upset you." His voice was stiff, defensive.

John breathed out hard, let his head drop. Something twisted in his chest. He was very conscious of Sherlock's quiet, measured breathing in the close space. 

He thought about all the times he'd woken himself up in the middle of the night, twisted in a silent scream, hands reaching out to break a fall that could not be stopped. Hands that ached to coax life back into a body that had broken itself apart on the unforgiving ground. Thought of the words he'd choked back, again and again. Thought of all the times he'd wished for Sherlock back, all of the things he'd imagined doing and saying if he'd ever got the chance. 

On the other side of the door, the party seemed to be in full swing. There was music, and the indistinct swell of conversation and raucous good cheer. 

John shrugged his shoulders, slipping out of the too-hot wool of his winter coat. It dragged down his arms, slid to the floor. He did not stoop to pick it up, simply looked down at it, a dark formless shape slumped lifelessly against the wall. 

"I wanted you back, you know," John said quietly. "I wanted you not to be dead." 

"I know," Sherlock said, the corner of his mouth twisting into the saddest smile John had ever seen.

"I still do," John whispered, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, breathing hard. 

"I think we're past the point of polite lies, John. Don't you?" Sherlock said, not unkindly, that sad smile still on his lips. "You can't even bear to be in the same room as me. Unsurprising. I _do_ tend to have that effect on people." 

"That's not—" 

"I thought you'd be delighted," Sherlock said. "Obviously, I'd been operating under faulty assumptions. I miscalculated. Mycroft did warn me." 

Sherlock, with that stupid moustache and his terrible accent and his bad jokes. 

_I thought you'd be delighted._

"You. Were. Dead." John spoke through clenched teeth. He thought about the way Sherlock had appeared next to his table at the Landmark like a mirage, vibrant and alive. Buzzing with energy and cracking jokes like no time had passed, like nothing had ever happened. 

Thought about how his first reaction had been a flood of euphoric joy, followed and eclipsed almost immediately by choking anger. 

The joy always came first. Even now.

"Yes, well," Sherlock looked down. "As I said. Miscalculation." 

"No," John said, forcing himself to look at Sherlock, the slim line of him in the shadows, the shock of dark hair, the pale skin and tired eyes. He was beautiful, John thought. Beautiful and sad.

 _Hasn't been having an easy time of it,_ Greg had said. 

"Not a miscalculation. Well. The execution, maybe," John added. He took a deep breath, steeled himself. "Sherlock. What happened to you while you were—while you were away?" 

Sherlock's eyes were sharp, his face wary. "What makes you think anything happened?" 

"Just—I've had a picture in my head. This past year. Of what you'd been up to. It's all a bit. Well. Grand and exciting. Like a Bond film. And I'm starting to wonder if, um. Maybe I've been wrong about that." 

Some of the sharpness in Sherlock's gaze faded. The wariness remained. "Apt as always, John." 

"I—" 

"Another time."

John looked down, his face hot. He cleared his throat. Nodded. He wanted to know all of it. What Sherlock had done while he was away. What had happened to Sherlock over the course of the last year that had turned him into someone who accepted invitations to pub nights, who went on dates. 

His date. The virologist from Glasgow. 

"Shit. Sorry. Sorry," John said, wincing. He could not lift his head to look at Sherlock. The miracle he'd wanted. The miracle he'd squandered. "It's nearly midnight. Your date will be wondering where you've—" 

"Date?" 

John lifted his head. 

Sherlock had furrowed up his brow, was staring at him with an endearingly perplexed expression. 

"Yeah," John said. He rubbed his face, felt the uneven scrape of stubble across his chin. Forced himself to meet Sherlock's eye. "Tall bloke? Glasses. Lack of regard for personal space?" 

Sherlock was still frowning at him. "Richard?" 

John smiled faintly, feeling like he might be ill. "Is that his name? Yeah." 

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in the air. "He's one of George's friends from university. In town for a conference, obviously here to meet up with a blind date. Though he's currently in the midst of some fascinating research into the hantavirus—" 

"Greg," John said.

Sherlock paused, glanced at him. "What?" 

"Greg. It's Greg. Greg Lestrade."

"Isn't that what I said?"

"No," John said, and he could not help but smile.

"In any case," Sherlock said, looking briefly flustered. "The hantavirus research. There are interesting possibilities surrounding identification of soil samples in cases where animal excrement is present, with certain applications allowing me to better pinpoint locations where violent crimes took place. Richard invited me back to his hotel to view some of his samples—" he hesitated, his cheeks slowly flushing up. "Oh." 

"Right," John said, his own smile dropping away. 

"I'm the blind date," Sherlock said. He sounded curious, a little stunned. An unexpected deduction, John supposed. One that had come just a little too late. 

Well, John supposed it was a night for belated revelations. 

"Yep." John broke eye contact, looked down at the ground. "Er. Sorry about that. If it's any consolation, I think he slipped his number into your phone while he was picking it up before." 

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat. John glanced back up, startled. Sherlock's expression was difficult to read. 

"I mean—" John paused, let out a miserable little laugh. "It won't help you right now. But. When we get out of here, you could always—I mean. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to hear from you. Right now he's probably thinking about how he missed his chance, and—" 

"John." 

"—and I'm sure he'd love to have you go back to his hotel and. Um. Not look at samples of animal excrement." 

"John." 

Outside the door, the cacophony of voices coalesced into a chorus. A countdown. 

_Ten!_

_Nine!_

_Eight!_

"Sorry for ruining your night," John said. "Cheating you out of your midnight kiss. And. For—" He did not know where to begin. He was sorry for all of it, he supposed.

_Seven!_

_Six!_

"John!" 

John stopped talking. Blinked. 

_Five!_

_Four!_

"For the record, I am not interested in anything that Richard wants to show me other than the animal excrement," Sherlock said, and his mouth twisted and his chin dipped in a way that was almost unbearably awkward. 

_Three!_

The laugh bubbled up before John could stop it, unexpected and loud and bright in the small space. The air between them seemed to warm. 

"Maybe don't use those exact words the next time you speak to him," John said. 

_Two!_

Sherlock grinned, a real grin, surprised and genuine.

 _One!_

John shook his head slowly, still giggling. His heart felt unexpectedly light, buoyant. God, but he'd missed this. Missed Sherlock. 

_HAPPY NEW YEAR!_

He opened his mouth to say so, and was shocked by the crash of warm lips against his own, by Sherlock's large hands coming up to cup his face with surprisingly gentle fingers. 

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat, almost as if he'd startled himself. Stepped back, his breath loud and unsteady. 

John was no longer laughing. "What—?"

"A deduction," Sherlock said. He tucked his chin, looked away. "A bit late. Possibly incorrect. But in my defense—" 

"Not. Not incorrect," John said. His voice emerged surprisingly steady. "Um. But—" 

"I've missed you," Sherlock breathed.

John shut his eyes, swayed forward. "Christ, me too." 

Then they were kissing again, John's back hitting the door, his hands scrabbling along Sherlock's back, seeking something to grasp on to. Sherlock's hair was a warm tangle against his flushed face. 

"Come back to Baker Street," Sherlock said, his breath ghosting against John's lips. 

"Yeah. Yes. That seems like the—yes. Let's do that." John reached for the doorknob, gave it a desperate twist. It remained stuck. "Only—" 

"Oh." Sherlock stepped back, his absence sudden and unwelcome. He put his hands on John's shoulders, shifted him aside. 

"What are you—?"

"Shh," Sherlock said. He dropped to his knees, fiddled with the doorknob. There was a click, and the door eased open with a rush of cool air. 

"You knew how to open it the whole time?" 

"Really, John, I wouldn't have got very far as a detective if I didn't know how to pick locks." 

John stared at him for a moment as Sherlock got carefully to his feet, picking up John's discarded coat on the way. Then he laughed. And once he'd started, he found it quite impossible to stop. He reached out, grasped on to Sherlock's arm to keep himself upright. 

Sherlock chuckled, stepped closer. 

"Come on," Sherlock said, tugging gently at him. "Baker Street." 

"I'm not looking at any animal excrement," John said, and giggled again. 

"Certainly not," Sherlock agreed, and after a moment's hesitation he tipped forward, his forehead ever-so-briefly resting against John's shoulder.

John turned and pressed his lips against Sherlock's temple, breathed him in.

"You'll tell me everything," he said. It was not a question. 

"Yes," Sherlock said. 

"All right." 

John took Sherlock's hand, twined their fingers together. Listened to Sherlock breathe. 

"The bartender is going to notice the open door and shout at us for being in here in exactly seven seconds," Sherlock said. 

"Guess that's our cue to leave, then." 

Sherlock grinned, and John tugged his hand, pulled him forward through the door and back into the loud and crowded pub. 

"Oi—" someone shouted. 

"Run," Sherlock said. 

They broke for the door together, weaving through the crowds. Sherlock reached the glass door first, the little bells overhead tinkling as he burst through. And then they were outside in the blessedly cold night air, hand-in-hand, sprinting along the pavement. 

The night felt alive in a way it had not in years. 

"Sherlock," John said, drawing to a stop. He paused to catch his breath. "Wait. Wait. Your coat. You left it inside. Somewhere." 

"Already texted Lestrade. He'll bring it by tomorrow." 

"Oh," John said, grinning. "Good." 

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks flushed with colour. He looked young. He looked _happy._

"Happy New Year," John said. It was going to be a good year. He was going to make sure of it. 

"Happy New Year, John," Sherlock said. He held John's gaze for a long moment, the air crackling between them. "Got your breath back?" 

"God, yes," John said. 

"Good." 

And then they were running, side-by-side as fireworks lit the night sky overhead in a cascade of brilliant light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, my friends. May 2019 bring good health, warmth, and happiness to you all.


End file.
